


The Magic Theater

by seaofolives



Category: Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Crossing Timelines, Gen, Inspired by Art, Random & Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 03:12:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14803268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaofolives/pseuds/seaofolives
Summary: A lingering scent of storm-tossed fields, under thunder’s bruised and snarling sky.





	The Magic Theater

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the beautiful [artwork](http://dappermouth.tumblr.com/post/174260023521/the-scent-of-storm-tossed-fields-under-thunders) of [@dappermouth](http://dappermouth.tumblr.com)! Takes elements from both comics and movies.

_A lingering scent of storm-tossed fields, under thunder’s bruised and snarling sky._

This is what he smells like, he thinks.

And this is how he will remember him, too, as he watches him in the dreary fields of scorned Vanaheim, a bright speck of red in a backdrop of black, gray and emptiness. While he, the observer, sits atop the carcass of a soiled beast, once great and pure until an evilness had infected it, and made it its unwilling and poor host.

That evil is now a splatter of ink amidst burnt air and thundering skies, weaving and forming but never too far from mighty Mjolnir, and the lightning swords that strike from Valhalla. Never too far indeed from Asgard’s—and now Vanaheim’s champion, chiseling at its life, its existence, again and again and again with every blow and every swing of his great hammer.

This is how it ends—with one mighty blast that painted the entire realm white with light, the spirit falls. And all that is left is the bright speck of red that is the hero of the story. The champion, the savior. His brother.

He approaches, his swagger battle-worn but that is how he, too, is remembered—that waddling gait, those squinted eyes. Tired but full of spirit and confidence. Excited by the battle he’d just won.

“You really sat this one out, didn’t you?” he asks, his voice booming in the open space. All around them, the skies are still black and heavy, the wind is still blowing and the grass is still dancing to its relentless music.

He shrugs. “Well, you looked very capable of finishing the fight all on your own.”

“You really are the worst brother in the whole nine realms, Loki,” his brother laughs.

He smiles. He rises, then, and climbs down, off the carcass that was his seat. “This is the Magic Theater,” he recites over the wind, approaching his brother wiping the blood from his brow. “And I, am the God of Stories. One day, you and I will be old.” He stops in front of his equal, who stands to await his next words. “One day, this Thor, and this Loki, will be dead. And gone.” 

Thor crosses his arms across his chest, a look of haughty defiance in his face.

“But we are creatures of stories, are we not?” he goes on, despite his brother’s challenge. “We are the eternal stories ourselves, passed down forevermore, from mouth to ear to stone and paper. And if this story must live forever,” he smirks then in victory, “then so, too, shall the God of Thunder.”


End file.
